Cohabitation
by RhondaStar
Summary: Spoilers for season 5 including Christmas Special. Follows Carson and Hughes through their search for a cottage & explores the changes in their relationship.


_I started writing this in October, after the initial cottage proposal, but didn't get far with it – now I've gone back to following the sheer wonderfulness of the Christmas Special, so I hope it holds together! I wrote the cottage searching prior to the Christmas episode so excuse inaccuracies._

_This covers the period from their first visit to Mrs Patmore's cottage to post-Christmas episode and eventual marriage and focuses on one snowy night. I've spent quite a long time on this and it's long because I wanted it as one story rather than chapters._

_Hope you enjoy - **please** leave reviews, I love reading them!_

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><p><strong>Cohabitation<strong>

He felt a tingle of giddiness as he looked over Mrs Patmore's cottage. True it needed work and a bit of life breathing back into it, but there were possibilities and it would be hers, she'd own it. It was a feeling he wasn't accustomed to, not since he was a lad, but genuine excitement at the prospect of owning a property warmed him.

He stood by the window overlooking the pair of women he'd worked with for so long. There was a time retirement seemed abstract, intangible. He'd told Mrs Hughes once he'd die at Downton and haunt the halls long after. Now, somehow, he'd come round to the idea of leaving, at some point. And the idea of having his own home seemed genuinely attractive to him. He wouldn't have to leave the village. He'd still have his friends. Acquaintances. He could still be useful.

But then there was her. He'd no longer see her every morning at breakfast. Or sit with her last thing at night. Or share with her every thought, every question, every worry, every bit of gossip. He'd come round to the idea of loving her years ago, when faced with the prospect of losing her, but knowing you loved somebody and doing something about it were two very different things. And besides what was there to do? There was no need. They were together every day.

Yet the idea of not living with her seemed impossible to comprehend.

He asked of her retirement and she'd brushed it off, nervily he thought, and as he watched her step outside back into the sunshine and birdsong he couldn't imagine a day without her in it.

It was on the return walk, listening to Mrs Patmore babble excitedly about her plans, that he formed _his_ plan. He wanted to buy a cottage, he could probably stretch to buying one alone but what if instead he asked her to join him. Now, it wasn't an outright declaration of love, it wasn't asking for her hand in marriage, it was barely even acknowledging affection, but maybe it would be _something_, even if they just bought it and rented it out. One day perhaps, just perhaps, they might find themselves retired and living there together. As friends. Nothing more. And if they didn't – well at least they always had a tie between them, a reason to see her.

Yes. He'd ask her later. It was decided.

* * *

><p>"It's not the right one," she said from the path, staring up at the white building in front of them.<p>

"What makes you say that?" His face was pressed up against the front window; she watched the sunlight on his back, dancing across it, the way it caught the bare skin of his neck below his hairline.

"I don't know why you're so against this one Mrs Hughes, it could be right enough with some sprucing up." He came to stand beside her on the path, "There's a lovely back yard."

She sighed heavily; sometimes he missed the most obvious of things. "Mr Carson, I know when you suggested this little… project it was with the idea of renting and earning ourselves a little retirement fund."

"Yes." He said deeply, staring down at her.

"But really, one day one or both of us will want to retire here, won't we?"

He swallowed, licked his lips.

She ploughed on, "So with that in mind mightn't it be wise to choose a cottage with at least two adequately sized bedrooms, not one?"

It was the closest either of them had gotten to admitting this would be a home to share, that he meant retire together, never be apart.

He nodded mutely.

"Well, then, we can cross property number five off of our list. Let's go have some tea and then we'll go and see property number six, and hope it's our lucky number."

* * *

><p>They had tea and sandwiches in the nearby coffee shop, Charles wanted cake but held back when he saw she wasn't having any.<p>

He felt awkward now, exposed, as if something lay between them that couldn't be properly discussed. The long and short was he didn't know what to say.

But she was the same as always, chatting, calm, patient and practical, how on earth did she always manage to make everything seem so practical? As if it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was – living with her, just as they always had. But maybe he didn't want it that way - companionship, cohabitation - what if he wanted more than that? He had no way of asking that of her, no words to begin to broach the very sensible situation they found themselves in.

They left the warmth of the coffee shop – the steamed windows and smell of pastries – and found their next potential buy. It didn't turn out to be lucky (an outside privy he wasn't fond of having to cope with in the winter) but number seven did.

He fell in love with it as soon as they reached the front door and she loved it because he did. His excitement was obvious, palpable, and he led her down the path with a sense of joy filling him.

She held back apprehensive, she feared they'd find somewhere like this, somewhere he'd adore. She'd allowed this folly go on for far too long, this dream (a wonderful dream of being together), and now it had gone too far and too fast for her to stop it without upsetting him, and heavens knew she didn't want to do that.

Even the late afternoon drizzle didn't dampen his spirits. It was square, and white, and ivy grew over the front wall and the windows looked like they might need some work but he loved it. And as she watched him poke around she couldn't help but love it too.

She loved the tree shedding blossom over the front path, the heaviness of the front door and the creak of the key in the lock, the long hallway, the small sitting room off the kitchen, the wonky staircase and three good bedrooms. It felt welcoming. It made her feel happy.

"There's a bathroom in," he called down the stairs to her, "we'll take it!"

She chuckled, "Because that's all that matters."

The stairs creaked as he came down, bending slightly to prevent banging his head at the bottom, "Well it shows there's been some renovation, we can ask about the windows too, upstairs they look new but I think the kitchen needs a new one."

"You love it." She said gazing around the kitchen, out of the window to the small back garden.

He smiled, filled with a sense of completeness. "I do. It's practical, suitable for our needs, we can easily rent rooms." He watched her closely, he knew her so well, just the slope of her shoulders told him something was wrong. "You don't like it?"

"I like it very much." She turned to face him, her expression serious, "But do you think we can still... stretch to it?"

"I'm sure we can, and I'll try and negotiate on the other things."

She bit down on her bottom lip as he started to search around again. How on earth was she going to let him down?

* * *

><p>Charles lay in his small bed staring at the ceiling, as he had done for the past six days. Six days since she'd informed him of her situation – of Becky, of being (as she termed it) a 'pauper'. He wasn't one to dwell on his emotions but since that moment in her sitting room he'd been heartbroken. His plan, long in deliberation, appeared to be finally coming to fruition and the thought of being with her for the rest of his life was centre in his mind. Only to be taken away.<p>

It seemed hopeless. And she was so good. Such a good, morally upright, strong woman. Why had she never told him of it before? Why had she carried the burden and worry for so long on her own? He would support her through anything. He wanted to be her support; she'd told him she would hold his hand to make him steady but the truth was she didn't even need to hold his hand, just her being there made him steady. Always. And he wanted to be that for her – her strength. He wanted to take care of her. He might not be able to outright confess his love but goodness knows he could find a way of showing it.

He would buy the cottage regardless. And they would live there together. He was determined.

* * *

><p><strong>Christmas Eve<strong>

After, by the tree surrounded by carols, he found himself shaking. He gripped one hand tight over the other behind his back in a bid to hide it. His cheeks were still red, he could feel them burning, and his heart still thudded uncontrollably, so much so he thought those by him might hear.

Never had he been so bold. Never had he dreamt he could be.

True it had taken him weeks to get to that point – mulling it over, rethinking his plan, going through all the legal procedures. When he'd examined it all at the heart lay the fact that he wanted her, not just the cottage or the promise of security when he retired – her. He wanted to be with her every day. To spend his life with her, until old age and death, and even then he hoped for eternity. Every thought, every possible route, led to one answer - marriage.

The simple, plain truth (which had been staring him in the face for more years than it was comfortable to admit) was that he loved her. He'd loved her for far too long without doing anything about it. Selfishly believing that he'd never need to tell her, that they'd always just bumble along as they always had, and he'd never need to make more of an effort than that.

And then she'd held his hand by the shore. And for months he'd dreamt of the sea. And things shifted. The universe. Their equilibrium. His heart.

Thank god for that trip to the seaside.

Now he was engaged, to the only woman he'd ever truly loved, and he'd cried when she'd accepted, like an old fool. He breathed deeply as he ran through the whole scene again (for the hundredth time since they'd left his pantry) and drew in the scent of her hair. She stood in front of him, directly in front of him, he could hear her singing, a slight shake to her voice, he could see over the top of her head to the rest of the staff and tenants. He wanted to draw his arm around her waist, enfold her against him, show them who they were, what they'd decided, what they'd be.

He hadn't even kissed her. He should have kissed her. He'd kiss her at New Year, gently, with trepidation, to see in January, to signal the change, the switch, in their lives. They'd soon be married, quickly he hoped, and perhaps even living in their new home.

He felt her warmth as she stepped back slightly and he glanced down when he felt something touch his chest, her fingertips, discreet, he reached around and caught her hand giving it a quick squeeze. Then she let go, stood forward again without anybody noticing. A small gesture but enough. They were together. They were engaged. They were in love. He was sure of that now.

He also knew he'd get no sleep that night.

* * *

><p>Late February and snow. It came thickly that night. Long slanting slabs of icy white. Elsie had hardly moved from the bedroom window, though her vision was blurred by the onslaught. The wind blew fierce, picking up the snow and swirling it around as if the world was nothing more than a mere snow globe.<p>

When the cottage door finally opened and Charles came in she rushed down to meet him, he stood by the fire warming his frozen body.

"How did it go?" She asked, fussing over him, removing his coat, scarf, gloves, hat and rubbing his chapped hands in hers.

"All penned I believe," his voice chattered with cold and he stared at her fingers working over his.

"I wish you'd let me help."

"Absolutely not, it's not safe out there and I won't let my wife risk her safety for the sake of pigs."

She smiled at the obscurity of his statement.

"You won't _let_ me..." She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"You know what I mean."

"But you can risk your safety for... pigs, is it? Or Lady Mary?"

He frowned at her, "Let's not."

She smiled and patted his chest. Little by little they were growing more comfortable sharing a home, moving outside of their long-established roles and testing the waters in this strange new world. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed the corner of his mouth, "Well, I'm glad you're back safely."

He squeezed her hand as the wind howled down the chimney and they stepped back from the dwindling fire.

"I couldn't get to the firewood." She said. "It came so quickly, one moment a few flakes, the next white over."

"I know," he stared at their still entwined hands. "I feel much better now, thank you."

She slowly let go. "Do you want to take a bath?"

Her hair was still damp from her own bath and he watched the tendrils curl around her shoulders. He'd become fascinated with her hair ever since they'd wed, only a few weeks ago yet it was the most precious moment in his life; he'd find himself watching as she brushed it out at night by the fire and braided it, or in the mornings when she coiled and pinned it. He wanted to touch it, to set it free from its constraint and let it fall over his fingers, to revel in its luxury.

He shivered again, rubbing his arms, "Just bed I think."

She nodded, "All right, I'll make you some cocoa."

"Thank you. Much appreciated." He started towards the stairs, stopping by the door, nervous, staring at her back, wondering if they might... he'd thought it a hundred times since they'd moved here together. Desperate for her. A deep-set longing that had filled his bones many years ago, he'd never had the chance to consider it moving from dream to reality. Perhaps he was too old for it to even matter, for things to even work. But now, after all they'd been through, what if it _did _still matter?

"Elsie..."

"Mmm?"

Her voice was as soft as candlelight. He watched her movements as she poured milk into the small pan, lit the stove. They were home together. Finally. They'd always been on the cusp of it, now it was whole, consuming him. What they were creating between them. He shivered again watching her back. The simple movement of her shoulder blades as she stirred. They had always been rather too polite with each other, too polite to admit feelings decades ago, perhaps always too tentative to allow this to move into any kind of physical reality.

"I wondered if I might share your bed tonight."

As always polite. No shake in his voice. No signal of embarrassment at his request. The only sign of her reaction a momentary stiffening of her shoulders. The stillness of the spoon in the pan. Just for a second. Then she stirred again.

A husband is allowed to make such requests. Of course he is.

"Yes," she said, perhaps a little too quickly. "Yes, that makes sense, what with the fires out."

Elsie Hughes. _Ever practical. Didn't live in a sack._ She imagined her gravestone bearing such a mark.

She stared at the pan of milk after he'd gone, listening to him upstairs in the bathroom, her husband, her husband of only three weeks. The wedding had been quick – what was the point of a long engagement at their age? And they'd moved into the cottage, but they had separate rooms (Practical. Logical.) and had pretty much existed much as they did when at Downton. Perhaps more relaxed, more open, certainly they laughed more in the evenings when comfortable by the fire – reading, sewing, talking. But they were missing the intimacy that came with marriage and she didn't mind really, she hadn't expected it, they'd hardly had a passionate courtship. They barely even touched.

But still. She wondered of his desires. And of her own too. So long buried she questioned whether they really existed, whether she too could feel anything of the physical side of love the rest of the world appeared to enjoy.

At times she caught him watching her from his comfortable chair as she made tea or poured their nightly drink. And his eyes would be heavy, his breathing deep and laboured, until she'd turn and stare back and he'd snap out of it. He hadn't asked for anything, he hadn't made any demands, a few gentle kisses and that was it, but he was a man after all and all men had needs.

And now, weeks into their marriage, maybe he had just made his first demand and the insides of her bones shook with the thought of it.

"Oh hell," she cursed as the milk boiled over. She drew the pan from the heat and put it aside for a moment as she cleaned the mess. Then she made his cocoa and took it upstairs to her bedroom.

They bumped into each other in the corridor outside the bathroom.

"Sorry," he said by default as his chest bumped hers.

"No I am, I wasn't looking where I was going." She held out his mug to him, "It didn't spill."

"Thank you."

She was in her nightgown and robe, and just the sight of her in it, the thought of being in the same bedroom as her, spurred feelings he hadn't experienced since his twenties. It all came flooding back and he had images of pushing her back against the wall and ravishing her as men did in novels he'd never admit to reading.

There was a steady pulse gathering in his groin and he hated himself for it, the weakness of the flesh, he'd managed all these years without – he'd fill the sink with cold water and put an end to the desire just as he had a hundred times before. Go to his own room, side-step the awkwardness and entire messy business.

He shifted uneasily, his pyjama bottoms suddenly very restrictive.

"Charles?" She said softly, "Whatever's the matter?"

The sound of her using his Christian name still caught him off guard and he stared at her, her eyes wide and bright, something else there; something he thought he'd glimpsed before, 'want' perhaps, attraction? He tried never to think of female desire, certainly not where Elsie was concerned, because if he'd ever dared to consider that she wanted him too (as more than just a friendly companion) he might never recover.

"You're not ill from being out so long in the snow?"

She reached for his hand, concern on her face, and that was all it took. He tilted his head quickly and pressed his mouth against hers. If she was surprised she didn't show it, in fact she remained perfectly still and silent for the minute or so he pressed his lips against hers.

Then he stopped, embarrassed, fearful, tempted… the pain in his chest tightening, the hammering between his legs intensifying. The mug of cocoa still clutched tightly in his hand.

She stepped closer to him in the dark, small hall, slanted her face to the side and this time kissed him, long and slow, but with a tenderness lacking in his clumsy effort.

He eased her back until she was touching the wall, kissed her deeply, opening her mouth with his.

Elsie hadn't expected this, not the kiss – she'd expected that for a while, ever since his proposal that wonderful Christmas Eve – but her response. Tremors of feelings she'd tried so hard to dispel time and time again flowed through her, she felt as if she were trembling, and there was so much heat suddenly, a tight coil of it in her stomach spreading down between her thighs, she wasn't sure exactly what she wanted but lord knows she wanted to find out.

Placing her hand on his chest she pushed him back slightly, amused by his despondent look, she took his hand, turned to her right and led him into her bedroom.

It was soft and pretty, flowers on her dressing table, a lamp lit by the bed, neatly pressed sheets.

He was anxious and heady with desire all at once. Could she really want this? Could he really do it? But they were married now, after all their years together, (he'd considered no other his partner; she was it, his life-long companion) and being with your wife was not only natural, it was expected.

She turned to face him by the bed, nervous he could tell and he did his best to appear calm despite his body feeling quite the opposite. _'Don't fail me now,'_ he willed.

She undid the tie on her robe and he watched dry-mouthed as it fell open and she slipped it off, laying it over the chair by the bed. Then she took the mug from his, he hadn't even realised he was still holding it. He felt foolish as he watched her place it down on the cabinet by the bed.

He stepped forward, placing his hands gently on her shoulders, and kissed her again, slowly, delicately, as he felt she deserved to be kissed.

Her shaking fingers reached for the buttons on his pyjama shirt, suddenly eager to see him, he stood back and watched as she unfastened the material and pushed it aside, allowing her palms to slide over his chest. She'd often wondered what it would be like. Firm and soft and warm, she could feel his heart pounding beneath her hand and she felt powerful.

'_What now?'_ She wondered, afraid to remove her gown, afraid what he might think, her body old and shapeless.

He took the lead again, his hands – large, strong hands – sliding along her arms and then down the side of her body, her ribs, resting on her waist momentarily and then to her hips. He stopped there, breathing deeply, she felt her heart might explode out of her chest, then he began to bunch the material in his hands, pulling it up to her waist.

She closed her eyes. Nobody but the Doctor had seen her naked since she was a child.

She bit her lips, listening to the material easing up her skin, the way his breath hitched as he pulled it up her stomach. She lifted her arms, allowed him to take it off completely. She watched as he laid it neatly with her robe and felt a swell of affection for him.

His fingertips trailed down her arms, where she'd pulled them protectively over her chest, until he reached her fingers and slowly lifted her hands away. He leant forward, she was surprised by how he trembled, and he stroked the hollow of her neck with his fingertips. Then along her collar bone. Her shoulders. Over her chest. Then finally he allowed himself to run his open palm over her breasts, pleased when she shuddered at his touch.

Elsie wondered how her body knew how to respond, it seemed to her, her nipples responded to his touch as they did to the cold air when she got out of the bath. Only this time it seemed to directly join the low hum that was centring in her body. The heat between her legs seemed to be flooding her and she wanted to ask him to both stop and continue at the same time. She felt she was on the cusp of something dangerous but it was too late to turn back.

She watched as he opened the tie on his trousers and eased them down his legs, the bulge there springing forward as if finally set free. She was no innocent, she'd seen a man naked, but goodness it surprised her how different it looked right now. She wondered how it worked, if it hurt, certainly he seemed to be struggling with it.

When he moved close to her again she stepped back and pulled back the bed sheets, getting in and then realising there'd need to be room for him and moving to the middle.

He got in beside her, leant over to kiss her, and she tilted back against the pillows letting him. His hand moved back to stroking her breasts and she closed her eyes at the sensation. In time she felt his hand move, drifting down over her stomach, lower, until he reached her thigh and pushed her legs apart. She complied, both unsure and unsteady but longing for him. Whatever this was she wanted it.

"You're sure?" he suddenly whispered by her ear and she realised her eyes were still closed.

She nodded, mutely, afraid her voice might fail.

"You can just say," he kissed her, his mouth sticky, breathless, "and I'll stop."

She nodded again, moving her arms as he shifted position, on his knees between her legs, then he lay down, firm and heavy on top of her, she thought how big his frame was (how had she never considered that before). His hands were flat on the pillow beside her head as he steadied himself and she widened her legs further, surprised by the awkwardness of it. Would she get used to this? They were so close; she recalled the times they'd danced over the years and realisation dawned on her as to the real reason why young couples enjoyed certain dances so much.

She felt something prod between her legs and she gasped, he stilled, kissed her forehead, her hair, and she lifted her mouth up to find his. He was a good kisser, she'd give him that.

The first pain was like a tight stab against her skin, but she held her gasp in this time, gripped his shoulder, waited, and then he moved forward again and she had the sensation of her skin being stretched too tight inside her body but he groaned so wonderfully in her ear she'd never heard him sound so complete before. So whole.

Part of her couldn't quite believe they were actually doing this, after so many years of not quite being sure if he even cared and now they were here. Naked. Making love.

He moved slowly, doing his best to hold back, concentrating on the movement, it had been so long and he was so unsure. He let his body act as it felt it should, and his mind take a back seat for once.

She breathed deeply as he moved quicker, her nails pulling back on his shoulder, she opened her eyes, his face was so close, his eyes closed in reverence. She looked up at the ceiling, at the headboard wobbling against the wall, then closed her eyes feeling him move inside her – back, forth – it wasn't unpleasant, in fact she was beginning to rather enjoy the sensation. It was just… odd… after so many years wondering.

And then he cried out and jerked against her and stopped and she felt rather disappointed.

So that was it. That was what it was all about.

His face fell against her, his mouth on her skin, whispering, kissing.

"I'm sorry," he panted, "so sorry, Elsie, my darling Elsie…." He kissed and kissed her and she stroked his back soothingly wondering exactly what it was he was apologising for – did he see this as sinful? Surely he wasn't concerned about taking her virginity. She was far too old for it to have been of consequence.

Still, she let him murmur and kiss until he fell against her, limp and heavy, and then she realised he was sleeping, his arms tight around her body.

She shifted slightly, tried to make herself more comfortable. How odd this all was. How very, very odd. She felt sore and wet and needed the loo but goodness she wouldn't be moving soon.

She closed her eyes, let her mind drift through the events, and soon she slept also.

* * *

><p>When she awoke it was to his insistent hand between her legs. She was unsure what it was at first, and what he was doing. She was curled on her side and he was behind her, his arm over her side and stomach, his hand between her legs pressing and rubbing. It felt nice. Very nice.<p>

Once her mind was awake she tilted onto her back more giving him better access. The heat soon returned, and the coil in her stomach, and his mouth moved down to her breasts, taking her nipple into his mouth as he licked and tasted her skin. She felt rather overwhelmed at it all. She wondered how much of her he could clearly see in the dark, would he be able to make out her many lines and wrinkles, the scar on her breast.

He was breathing heavy against her skin, his hands roaming over her, his lips caressing.

It was clear to her he wanted to do it again, to repeat their earlier actions, and she didn't really mind but this felt so much better. Still, she lay on her back again and allowed him to move on top of her, between her legs, the hardness of his erection more familiar now as he pushed inside her and groaned out her name.

She moved her arms around his back, holding on to him, feeling that steady rhythm starting again as he slid back and forth. She was still sore. She lifted one leg up, bending her knee, and it eased the pressure a little. He seemed to excite him even more though and he kissed her furiously until she was breathless.

This time he was slower, seemed to take his time more or had more control, she wasn't sure which. And soon she found her hips moving with his, her body responding to his movements and copying them as if it were natural. Her breath hitched as he drove forward and she felt a tight current spiral through her from the place he touched and she wanted more of it. She drew her hands down across his back, squeezing his skin, and bent her other leg in the same way as the first, which seemed to drive him deeper inside her and they both groaned loudly at that. She heard the headboard smack against the wall as he moved more forcefully and she felt control leave her as something swept up inside her, taking her somewhere.

"Charles!" She gasped and he suddenly stopped, looking down at her with concern, eyes blinking in the dimness of the room.

She rubbed his back, moved her hips a little, enough to show him she didn't want him to stop. _Please god don't stop!_ Her mind screamed.

He kissed her then, their tongues meeting as their bodies did and she felt no fear of moaning out loud now, in fact she couldn't stop herself from moaning, her mind no longer seemed linked to her body, she couldn't control herself. That was a feeling she was quite unaccustomed to, being in control was her role.

It was fast and hot and sweaty but it felt so good, so different, so new. Every fibre of her being on fire as he moved inside her, as if he were part of her. Suddenly the tightness seemed to unfurl and explode and she screamed his name again, feeling as if her body was lifting up and around his and she shook with the force of it. She felt him stiffen and still inside her, groaning even louder than the first time and this time she didn't mind when he collapsed on top of her with his face pressed against her neck.

For long minutes they lay like that, bodies curled around the other, breathing deep and patchy, trembling skin and shaking limbs.

"Please God let us do that again." She finally whispered into the air and she felt him lift his head up, look at her and laugh.

"Better than before?"

She nodded, a coy smile on her face as she curled her hands over his shoulders, "Much."

"Good," he kissed her face, "my darling." He moved to lie behind her, his arms around her holding her close against him.

She listened to him drifting to sleep again, what an odd night it was, a wonderfully odd night. She recalled him once telling her he was romantic and she'd doubted it – she never would again, that was for sure.

* * *

><p>Later, she sat slowly, her body still trembling, odd to be naked with another human being, to have shared such an intimacy with them. She wasn't at all used to the emotions or prepared for them.<p>

Gradually she slid from his embrace, his arm heavy over her waist, his breath on her neck.

"Don't go." He murmured sleepily.

She felt her heart pull, "I won't be long, I just need the..." She twisted her head over, trying to make out his expression in the dark. "I won't be long."

His hand squeezed her waist, she smiled, hoping he could see, then she turned and sat, her bare feet brushing the carpet. For a moment she perched on the edge of the bed, the sheets curled around her, she stretched her hand out to where her robe lay across the bottom. Her breath caught when she felt Charles' hand at the base of her back, his palm flat against her skin, for a minute she remained there, content to enjoy the sensation, for him to enjoy it too, then she slid on the robe and got out of bed, heading quickly to the bathroom.

Despite it being after one the room seemed bright. She went to the window and peeked out at the landscape, a clean fresh painting absent of colour. It filled the room with light.

"Is it still snowing?"

She glanced to the bed, "Yes, it is. Still thick."

She moved back to her side of the bed, nervously taking off her robe and quickly sliding beneath the sheets. Leaning on her elbow she glanced down at Charles, flat on his back staring shyly up at her. "I thought you were asleep," she said gently.

"Waiting for you." He lifted his hand to hers and she took it gratefully, folding her fingers with his, nerves dissipating.

She lay down beside him, both shifting onto their sides to face the other. His arm returned to her waist, warm and secure over her.

"There's something rather comforting about being here with you whilst the weather wreaks havoc out there." He admitted.

"I thought the same. I'd never been so thankful as I was when I saw you walk in unharmed." She admitted, surprised by her honesty.

He swallowed, stroking her skin with his fingertips, longing to touch her all over, to make love to her again, over and over again, so she would never be in doubt as to the extent and depth of his feelings for her.

"I'm sorry for earlier," his face flushed red. "I meant for it to go slowly."

She smiled and shook her head, brushing his comment aside, stroking her hand down his face, so familiar to her, as familiar as her own.

He sighed, laid his palm flat against her back and eased her body even closer to his, "I've never felt anything like this Elsie," he admitted. "I never imagined I could."

"Me neither," She was surprised by the weight of emotions in her voice, it didn't sound like her, but then she didn't feel like herself neither. She felt more complete. "I might have dreamt I could, once upon a time..."

"With me?" He asked tenderly, his fingertips delighting in the softness of her back, her full breasts pressing against his chest. She nodded, tears in her eyes, he kissed her forehead, swallowed the lump in his throat. "You once asked me if I'd ever wished I'd gone another way. Do you remember that?"

She nodded, "Of course."

"It haunted me for years that question, the knowledge I should have done things differently."

"No," she clutched his forearm, "Don't say that, things are what they are. I have never been unhappy."

"I have," he said quickly.

"Charles..."

"...at times, maybe, you made me think. Your question made me think, the way you looked asking it," he smiled, touched her mouth, "the nervous way you chewed down on your bottom lip just as you are now. As you often do."

"Do I?"

"Yes, you'd make a poor gambler."

"Then I'll cross it off my list of potential careers."

"Do."

She smiled again, wiping her cheeks, "I'm a mess."

"Never." He kissed her mouth, sweetly, gently. "I do love you."

"I know, and I love you, I have done for a very _long_ time."

She snuggled against him, her legs tangling with his as he moved onto his back and let her body rest against his.

Her voice sounded thick when she spoke to him, lazy with sleep, her accent heavy. "Don't fret over time gone by, of things we have or haven't done. We're here now. Be content."

In relief, and happiness, Charles allowed sleep to take over.

* * *

><p>In the early hours of the morning she woke again – suddenly, yanked from sleep with a jolt. For a moment she forgot where she was, it happened some nights, she'd spent so many of her years sleeping in the same tiny bed in the same small room that when she woke and found it wasn't surrounding her she felt lost.<p>

The familiar tug of dizziness and disorientation spun her brain for a moment and she laid perfectly still allowing it fizzle out and settle. For her memory to kick in and the realisation of exactly where she was and who she was with to centre her.

This room seemed oddly quiet, calm and peaceful, as if the entire world had been laid to rest beneath a warming blanket. Charles' body pressed against hers, a warm weight against her arm. She remained perfectly still, taking in the outline of his features in the dim light, how at peace he looked in sleep. The paleness of his skin, the broad chest, wide-set shoulders, thick and full body. He was incredibly attractive, she didn't always take the time to focus on that (her days were so full with meaningless matter) and his voice drove her to distraction. When he read at Sunday service or at the memorial he commanded attention, all attention. And when they'd first met, way back when she was still a young woman, she remembered his voice most of all, his imposing nature yes, his sense of decorum and hard-work yes, but his voice, that had immediately set her on course for more than a working relationship.

Gently she slid out from beneath the bed sheets, stretching her body, stretching out the aches and tight muscles. Sometimes she forgot that she wasn't young anymore and physical activity needed to be taken carefully. She smiled to herself, thinking of herself in that way was an entirely new state-of-mind and would probably take some getting used to. But then thinking of herself as a wife was still taking some getting used to. She found her nightgown and slipped it on.

They were getting there though, she felt completely like his wife now, after this night, but even before she found they had both slipped into their new 'roles' quite easily, he was incredibly protective, caring, attentive. She found she was enjoying simple things – cooking for him, fixing holes in his socks as they sat of an evening in the parlour, by the fire, him reading to her (_that delicious voice!_).

She stood by the window, peeking around the curtains to survey the tranquil scene. All is calm. All is bright.

"Come back to bed," he murmured and she turned to look at him, his arm outstretched towards her. "You'll get cold."

"I'm fine, just surveying the scene."

Still, she moved back to the bed and slid back into his embrace, her heart thudding as he wrapped her in tight.

"Your feet are cold," he kissed her forehead. She felt him rub her feet with his own warming her.

She'd never felt so comforted. So safe.

He toyed with her hair, stroking the length of it.

She shifted out of his embrace; sitting and unfastening her braid, letting it fall to her shoulders. Immediately his hand slid into it, closing his eyes as he felt the silkiness enclose his fingers as she lay back down.

"Better?" She asked gently, settling against him.

"Thank you," he kissed her head again, closing his eyes.

"When did you know?" he whispered into the darkness.

"Know what?" She mumbled sleepily, her cheek pressed against his chest.

"That it was more than professional."

"We're having this conversation _now_?"

He smiled, stroking his hand up her spine and tangling his fingers into her hair again. "Is there a better time?"

"I suppose not, just before dawn, as logical a time as any." She breathed deeply, focussing on the feel of his fingertips tenderly tickling her. "We were friends first," she said gently, "before my feelings became more... Intimate. Or complicated."

"When was that?" He closed his eyes, intrigued, apprehensive, desperate to know more of her heart.

"Many, many years ago. I cared for you as a friend might; I loved you as a friend."

"That changed?"

"Of course, we've spent our lives together. We were like a married couple even before this..."

He smiled, "I know. Regardless, I'm glad it's official."

"As am I, because we wouldn't be sharing this bed if we weren't husband and wife."

"And I enjoy hearing that phrase." He kissed her head, "Do you mind being _stuck with me_ now?"

She yawned, smiling at his choice of words, "I'll do my best to cope."

"As always, you cope very well."

"You're not always so complimentary."

"Oh?" he sounded offended.

"No, but then I quite enjoy our little spats, keeps things interesting." She opened her eyes and looked up at him, a mischievous glint present. "One of the things that made us a married couple even before it became official."

"You do it on purpose."

Her eyes widened, "Do I?" She shook her head, "I really think..."

"...Just because you're more open-minded than I am." He interrupted. "More 'modern'."

"Can I get that in writing? Signed and dated."

He chuckled, "As it's you and you have a way of making me..."

"Do I? The staff thought I did too, even before this." She held up the hand bearing her wedding ring.

"Well," he curled both arms around her drawing her body tight against his. "I think now you have even more of a hold over me. And I didn't think that possible."

"Flatterer." She yawned again. "Tomorrow we'll be tired."

"I don't care; I don't want to waste a moment of the night."

She slid her hands over his shoulders, curling her fingers behind his neck, "My, I rather like this side of Mr Carson."

"And you doubted I could be romantic."

"Never again."

"Only like this though," his face suddenly turned very serious. "Only with you."

"Well, I didn't expect it in the servants' dining hall, I know you too well after all. Though I'd rather like to see Thomas' face."

"Always so mischievous."

"A woman has to have her fun."

"We may not even need to go anywhere tomorrow, or be able to; the snow could be too thick."

"What a shame, a forced honeymoon."

"Do you regret not taking a real one?"

"Not at all, we're hardly your typical newlyweds." She turned onto her back, stretching and turning again until her back was against his chest.

He snuggled up behind her, his hands already wandering over her body. Without really realising she was doing it she wiggled her bottom against him, feeling his hands push up the thick material of her winter nightdress. His lips were delicate upon the back of her neck, kissing her through her hair, mumbling endearments.

She closed her eyes, considering how many nights she'd slept alone, they'd slept apart, time wasted. In the end love was all that mattered, the connections you made with other human beings, the joy you gave out and received. And this was all of it – love and tenderness, it mattered more than ever before to her. She wanted to hold on to it forever. To never consider being apart again, not even for a day.

She breathed deeply, shakily, as his hand moved between her legs and he pressed against her back, a small moan of pleasure escaping her. This was all so wonderfully fresh and new and she wanted to know it all, to share this wonderfully natural joy with him.

His hands slowly worked her nightdress up and she smiled wondering how many nights she'd sleep naked now, in his arms.

She twisted her head around, finding his mouth, recalling that sudden twist in their lives not even two months before when he'd stood before her, shaking – almost crying – and softly and steadily asked her to be his wife. His voice clouded, his face tender and gentle, seeking her answer as sweetly as he could. The mass of emotions he drew in her with those words.

As she turned onto her back his arms encircled her and again he marvelled at the slightness of this fierce, strong woman who'd held his heart for longer than he could recall. At how naturally she fit against him, as if their bodies had been made for this, for each other.

She gripped his shoulders as he moved above her, parted her thighs around him again, familiar now, warm and welcoming. He moved so slowly inside her, seemed to growl at the contact then still, hovering above her, his mouth a fraction from hers, they breathed together. The slightest movement inside her, soft and silky around him. Her lips brushed his and they kissed delicately, teasingly, their hips barely moving together.

_So this is love_, he thought. All of it, the pain and hardship, the domesticity, the simple joy of being with her. And this, the unity of their bodies, this was love.

She gasped, pressed her mouth hard to his and seemed to push her body up against his until he increased the pressure of his movements. They didn't need words for this, they could communicate far more of their feelings through touch than language.

It seemed eternity was forming in her body. She was coming completely undone in his arms and it was wonderful. Now she truly felt like his wife.

* * *

><p>He came down late the following morning. His feet stuffed in his slippers, hair unruly as he tramped the stairs. The cottage was set with cold and white with snow. From the hall window he saw it was well over knee-high and the sky remained dull and heavy with the promise of more.<p>

The kitchen smelt of porridge and the tea-pot stood on the table. Elsie was rinsing something in the sink and humming and he thought how wonderful she looked, dressed in a skirt and blouse, wearing an apron, the way her backside looked in it – full and firm. He imagined how her stockings caressed her legs, where they led to. He swallowed, the memory of her naked bottom pressing into his groin.

"Good morning," she said turning and finding him there. "I was beginning to think you'd sleep all day."

"My apologies."

"None needed, it's far too deep to get anywhere, I won't let you even try. No word from the house so I assume all is well and we'll just see it out."

"We'll need firewood, I'll try and dig to it."

She moved to him, wiping her damp hands on her apron, "After breakfast though surely." She didn't like the set to his face, the seriousness of his voice, not after last night, she hoped he hadn't forgotten. She pressed her hands to his chest and stood on her tip-toes to kiss his mouth, firmly and sweetly. "Good morning." She said again.

He rested his hands on her hips, "Good morning Mrs Carson."

She smiled, "Much better. Would you like some tea?"

He nodded, sat, accepted the tea and porridge. It was good – the best she'd made so far. She wasn't a bad cook, she'd grown up on a farm after all and home-cooking was part of the course, it had just been so very long since she'd done it.

"Did you sleep well?" He asked as she sat across from him and folded her hands beneath her chin smiling coyly at his question.

His cheeks reddened as he reflected on it, his tongue twisting in the thickness of the porridge.

"Yes, thank you, very well." She licked her lips. "And you?"

He swallowed, reached for his tea cup, "Also, very well. Perhaps the best night's sleep I've ever had." She chuckled at that, giggling as if she were still young, and looked to the table.

After breakfast he dressed and they put on warm coats and heavy boots – she insisted on helping him – and struggled the short distance from their back door to the store, watching as he dug in the frosty air.

"Almost there," he said standing momentarily to wipe his brow.

She watched as he bent again, his coat rising, his trousers tight over his backside. Smiling she bent, balled snow in her hand, and threw it. It fell short, skidding the ground by his foot.

He didn't flinch, tapped the edge of the wood with his spade. She balled another one, lifted her arm higher, threw firmer, and this time it hit with a thud. She covered her mouth - annoyance or laughter she wasn't sure which to expect.

Slowly he twisted his face around to hers. "Did you really just do that?" He asked softly.

"And?" She chewed her lip.

"And..." He reached for a ball of snow, "Mrs Hughes..."

"Oh, so it's Mrs Hughes now is it!" She was giggling as she stepped away from him, dodging his hand as it sought its aim. "Now Mr Carson, be sensible."

"As the housekeeper always is."

She raised her hands, "Of course, and you don't want to make an enemy of her."

"She has a fiery Scottish temper." He smiled before letting the snow fly through the air and connecting with her hip.

"That hurt!" She lied, filling her hands with snow and throwing it back at him.

"I'm trying to do an important job here," he said as he returned the gesture. "You're distracting me."

"So sorry," she hit him square in the chest.

"Chilidish behaviour." He scorned.

"Make me stop," she dodged another of his shots, she was faster than he was, had the better aim (he thought of getting her on the cricket team).

"As if I've ever been able to stop you doing exactly what you liked." He moved this time, getting closer, absorbing the volley of snow hitting his upper body. He stalked her.

"Charles..."

"Elsie..."

He grinned, arms wide, hands open, she tried to step away from him but he was too close now, too big.

"Now, consider your revenge carefully." She said, her eyes twinkling, heart pounding, she hadn't played in the snow since she was nine years old.

"Oh, I have."

"Because you don't want to upset your wife."

"Never."

He caught her by the waist, hands loose but firm upon her. "What should I do?" He whispered, mouth by her ear.

She caught his gaze, held it as he quite easily lifted and spun her body. She yelped, unused to being held, touched, lifted. Her hands on his shoulders as she yelled, "Charles put me down before we fall."

"Absolutely!" He dipped her down and back, and she yelped again as the backs of her legs hit the snow. In a second he was on top of her and they rolled over upon the ice.

She was caught between laughing and yelling at him, "I'm soaked."

"You started it." He pulled her body on top of his and she enjoyed the sensation of being full-length against him.

She touched his face, brushed the snow from his hair, "Did you find the wood?"

"Yes, but you distracted me."

"I apologise."

He smiled, "Don't, I'm the happiest I've ever been. And I suppose at times I make the odd mistake." He teased.

"You do, but I forgave you for it many years ago." She kissed his forehead. "How much longer to dig out the wood?"

"Two minutes."

She smiled, placing her hands on his chest to push herself up, "Good, let's go back to bed."

"Elsie!"

"Don't be scandalised. I think we've waited a long time for this. I want to enjoy it." She got up and held her hand out to him, "Are you coming?"

"Well I… it's almost 10:30."

"Charles! Do you have a gong to ring?"

Her smile was teasing, mischievous.

He got up, took her hand and followed her back indoors and upstairs.

For many hours that day all he heard was the glorious sound of Elsie's voice moaning her pleasure and the squeak of the bed – they'd have to get a new one!


End file.
